


The Devil's Drink

by FlashFlashFlash



Series: Anaemic!Patrick [3]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anaemic!Patrick, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Peterick, Sickfic, Vomit, i need to start proofreading but i'm too lazy, i'm literally not even kidding, idk it's pretty graphic, it's fluffy and cheesy as hell at the end, just a little, ngl joe and andy are pretty useless, srsly it tastes horrible, the devil's drink is the supplement, this shit is gonna make you lactose intolerant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: Patrick doesn't feel okay. The remains of his migraine are still gnawing at the edges of his brain, and, even though he thinks he's done being sick for now, the nausea is almost unbearable. He's sweating and shivering at the same time, he has a fever, and he's scared he's going to pass out. Definitively, Patrick is not okay.





	The Devil's Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Leave any prompts you want me to write in the comments! This took a few days, and it's pretty shitty, but it's here and it's real and that's all that matters.

Infinity On High Era: 

 

Patrick isn't often sick after taking his supplements, but, sometimes, just sometimes, he feels so rotten that it's almost a relief. Now is one of those times. He's recovering from a migraine the night before, and huddled in the corner of the bus with a slight fever. Joe and Andy are milling around in the tiny kitchenette area, and Pete's watching TV just a few feet away from them. Patrick, however, is on the bed in the room right at the back of the bus, hugging blankets around himself and praying that he'll fall back asleep. 

He has no such luck. 

"Patrick, honey?" Pete calls down the bus. "You're late for your iron," he says, pulling the sliding door to the back room aside. He's greeted with the sight of Patrick curled up in his duvet on the bed, drained and unmoving. "Are you okay?" 

"Migraine last night," Patrick reminds lazily. He doesn't want to talk. 

"Come on, come take your iron up front," Pete extends a hand. "We can watch TV and snuggle after," he bribes. 

The reason Patrick doesn't want to take his supplements is simple. The 'apple-tasting' liquid is horrible, and he can't eat for at least half an hour after, because of the taste it leaves in his mouth. It makes Patrick retch, and he's feeling particularly weak-willed today, lacking the energy to put up a fight against his instincts. 

In the tiny lounge/kitchen, Joe and Andy have sat down with mugs of hot drinks, and the first thing Patrick sees is the supplement bottle on the counter. Patrick eyes the sink; he learned the hard way, last night, in the midst of his migraine, that, yes, vomit does count as a solid, and no, you can't throw up in this bus' toilets or sinks, even if the only other option in the panic of the moment is your boyfriend's wash bag. 

"Can I have a bowl? I don't feel great," Patrick swallows. 

"Sure," Pete says, bending down and pulling a large plastic bowl from the cupboard under the sink. Patrick carefully pours two measures of his supplement into the plastic cup that sits, upturned, on the top of the bottle. He takes the cup, and perches himself on the sofa beside Joe, who shoots him a sympathetic glance over the top of his mug. Pete kneels in front of him, bowl in hands, and smiles weakly. There's a pause while Patrick stares into the transparent amber liquid in his cup. "Do you need me to do the rhyme?" Pete chuckles. "Once in the morning-" 

Patrick shakes his head. 

"Stop. I'm tired; I don't wanna do it," he breathes, struggling not to close his eyes. "I feel sick." 

"You'll feel better after you've taken it," Andy offers. "You say that yourself all the time." 

"It'll be over before you know it," Pete grins. Patrick would have slapped him if he wasn't so worn out. 

"I'm gonna throw up," Patrick's nose can't take the smell. He raises the cup to his mouth, pauses and knocks back the sour-tasting liquid. It burns a path down his throat. Patrick manages to swallow it, and the whole band breathes a sigh of relief. The taste in the back of his throat is disgusting, and he's sure he's pulling a face, but he has to hold his breath for a while to stop himself from burping up his stomach contents. Eventually, he breathes out, a little shocked that he seems to be winning the battle. 

"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Pete says, as if he hadn't seen the colour drain from Patrick's face as he swallowed. Patrick glares at him. "I love you?" Pete laughs nervously. Patrick presses the back of his hand to his mouth, fighting the urge to force his body to heave. 

"I'm sure you'll feel a little better soon," Andy says sympathetically, as Patrick silently reaches for the bowl in Pete's hands. He hugs it into his stomach and stares into the bottom of it, his grip tight on the curled rim. 

"I dont know how you do it, man," Joe sips his coffee. "I'm so forgetful, I'd just die."

Patrick feels a slight rise in the tightness of his tummy, and brings his other hand down to grip the other side of the bowl. He shuts his eyes as the panic sets in, and he's sure he's going to vomit. 

"Pete, 'm gonna puke," Patrick babbles, arms shaking. "'M gonna puke." 

"You're okay, honey," Pete stokes circles on Patrick's left knee. "If you're gonna puke, that's okay. Your migraine tablets don't usually agree with the supplements." 

It's then that Patrick's stomach lurches, and he claps a hand to his mouth. He retches, tasting sour vomit. He barely moves his hand out of the way before his vomit is splattering into the bowl before him, and his throat is making noises that he's sure won't be good for his voice. Patrick vomits three times before he can breathe again, and he gasps when he finally can. 

"Dude," Joe puts a hand on Patrick's back and frowns. Patrick dry heaves. 

"Don't worry, honey, okay?" Patrick is sick again. "Let it all out," Pete brings a hand up to support the dangerously full plastic bowl in Patrick's lap and save his jeans. He hears Patrick's stomach gurgle uncomfortably and sees Patrick dip his head again, before coughing harshly, which resulted in a volume of thinner vomit spraying from his mouth. Patrick breathes in like he's been underwater and this is his first breath in hours. "You're okay," Pete whispers unhelpfully. 

Patrick doesn't feel okay. The remains of his migraine are still gnawing at the edges of his brain, and, even though he thinks he's done being sick for now, the nausea is almost unbearable. He's sweating and shivering at the same time, he has a fever, and he's scared he's going to pass out. Definitively, Patrick is not okay. 

"Think 'm gonna pass out," Patrick mumbles, his head drooping. "Pete, help..." 

"Here, let me take that," Joe says, passing his mug to Andy and carefully prising the bowl from Patrick's hands. "I'll put some cling film or some shit on the top." ((Cling film/cellophane?)) 

"Head between your knees, honey," Pete coaxes. When Patrick obliges, he presses a few kisses to the top of Patrick's head, each varying in length. "I love you. I love you so, so, so much and I'm so sorry you feel this shitty," he fiddles with Patrick's hair. 

"'S okay," Patrick sighs. "Not your fault." 

"D'you want another bowl? Like, d'you think you're gonna throw up again, or are you good for now?" Joe roots through the cupboards. 

"Please," Patrick whines. He's not sure if he'll be sick again, but the bowl offers security. There are a few minutes of polite silence while Joe rummages, and Patrick's dizziness subsides. "I think I can sit up." 

"Slowly, babe," Pete takes hold of Patrick's hand as he sits up. 

"Babe? That's new," Patrick smiles a little and gratefully accepts a clean, empty paint pot from Joe. 

"Thought I'd try it out," Pete grins. "It suits you." 

"You guys are cute," Andy sighs happily, resting his chin on his hand. 

"We love each other," Patrick circles a thumb on the back of Pete's hand. "I'm sorry you guys had to watch me throw up." 

"Nothing we haven't seen before," Joe shrugs. "You've been dealing with my hangovers since we were in high school, maybe it's time I returned the favour." 

Patrick's stomach twists, and he groans, scooping the paint pot further up his lap. 

"Hey, how about we take you to the back, and you can lie down?" Pete suggests. He and Andy help Patrick stand, and help him slowly along the slim hallway. They bundle him up in the duvet and put him in the corner, then Pete slides up next to him, the paint pot by their feet. 

"I'll leave you guys here. Shout if you need anything," Andy says and slides the door shut. 

Pete nuzzles into his boyfriend's neck, breathing in his scent, even if it is tinged slightly with sweat and sleep. It's not long before Patrick's dozing off, and Pete can't help but think that, even if he doesn't like it when Patrick's sick, he loves the way the hot flush paints his cheeks rosy and infiltrates that pale skin he loves so dearly. He drinks in Patrick's face, smiles softly, and rests his head back on the headboard. The silence is occasionally broken by little stomach gurgles and panting when Patrick gets too hot, but it's comfortable, and it's safe, and, as cheesy as it sounds, Pete wouldn't want it any other way.


End file.
